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could be off to town. Soon, he could finish things right: trade the cannibal pigs for the best coffin, an eloquent preacher and the plot nearest Jesus.
    He pulled up his coat and set off for the woodshed through the now-slushy path he’d dug for himself. He felt like he should tell his mama something—that everything would be fine, her soul would be soon on the way to Heaven. But having spent the days watching over her, he was fairly certain she was not there to hear it.
    All the same. Jason wanted to see her. Maybe whisper it.
    But he stopped before he got far, and cursed himself. This was, of course, the first time in weeks he had headed there without the rifle. And this morning was also the first that he had seen tracks, other than his own.
    Jason stepped back into the cabin, took hold of the Winchester, and with considerably greater care, crept around the cabin’s side to the woodshed.
    §
    How do I shoot a man?
    The question suddenly became relevant, because the tracks he saw were not wolf tracks. They were boots, and by the look of them they were heading up from the direction of Cracked Wheel before they stepped down onto the path and disappeared.
    Jason stood against the wall of the cabin, rifle held to his chest, heart hammering, and peered around. He blinked, and thought:
    How do I shoot a woman?
    She wore a black overcoat with a fur collar and a fur-lined hat; she was stout but not overly so, and carried in one hand a carpet bag. In her other hand—her right hand—she held a revolver. She was looking up into the rafters, faced away from Jason.
    Well , he thought, stepping out and lowering the rifle, one thing’s sure. I do not shoot her in the back.
    “Drop the gun, please ma’am.” He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded, even as the thought occurred to him: should she turn too fast, or jump away, or do anything dangerous, he would have to shoot her. Somehow, he would have to shoot her. “I have you covered.”
    “Oh!” The gun fell from her hand, as did the carpet bag. She raised two small gloved hands. “Please don’t shoot. May I turn?”
    Her voice made Jason think of easterners. Which made him think of his mama.
    “You may,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
    The woman turned, her feet making a sucking sound in the dirt. Jason judged her to be older than his mama had been, but not much. She wore eyeglasses, and he thought them to be very thick, because her eyes seemed very large.
    “Is that Ellen?” she asked, motioning to the rafters.
    Jason took a breath and lowered the rifle. He didn’t expect this strange woman would be trading gunfire with him. But that wasn’t to say he was ready to trust her yet.
    “You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “What’re you doin’ here, if you please?”
    “I’m—” she looked back up “—oh my. That is Ellen, isn’t it? Oh, poor dear Ellen. Did she succumb too?”
    “She’s dead, if that’s what you mean,” said Jason. He stepped toward the woman—keeping an eye on the revolver all the while. He felt a piece of him break off in his chest as he said the words. “My mama’s been dead—some time now.”
    The woman looked down, and brought a gloved hand to her eye. “Oh. Your mama.”
    “Ma’am,” said Jason, collecting himself, “who are you, please?”
    She looked at him again, with those great big eyes. They seemed less sure of themselves this time.
    “I am Germaine Frost,” she said. “I am, well . . . I suppose I am your aunt. Ellen Thornton was my baby sister.”
    §
    It was hard to credit it at first. Jason’s mama had been tall and blonde-haired, with a firm jawline and a lean, strong figure. Germaine Frost was in many respects the opposite. She was not as tall as Jason, and the line of her jaw was obscured by thick jowls, and her hair was black as an Injun’s.
    And leaving aside the glasses, there was the fact that Jason could recall no point at which his mother had talked of any aunts or